Pavor Nocturnus
by Ellie 5192
Summary: Gibbs didn't always sleep soundly. Sometimes, it was sleep that he wanted to escape from. Slight Jibbs hints. Character head piece.


_A 'Five Times' story__ about Gibbs. I needed to write something… get myself back into the swing of things… so this is what you get. _

_Jibbs. It gets shippery at the end. I can't help it… it's like a compulsion. And, yes, thank Sanctuary for the title…_

_Enjoy, as always._

_Pavor Nocturnus_

The first time it happened he was at Bethesda. The nurse had to sedate him. All he could see was his friends' face- the look in his eye at he clutched his shirt and begged him to be careful. To get home safe. To take care of Shannon. To leave him to die. The boy didn't have anyone waiting at home- nobody to miss him. Gibbs did. He had a new wife. He had a father, distant as he may be. He might even have kids some day. Gibbs wasn't much older than the boy- a boy who's name he forgot the moment it came from his lips, but who's face he saw every night for a week.

That boy was the only lost comrade he ever cried over after battle. The only one who he let himself care about.

He learned.

The second time crept up on him. Shannon was five months pregnant and he was set to deploy that week. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen- that he was going to lose someone. Shannon spent the night calming him down, and they both took the next day off. By the end of the week he was the one comforting her- assuring her of his safe return. Still, he couldn't help but feel uneasy about this mission.

They lost half their people and once again he came home with a sling- another close call. Death avoided again, for a while.

The third time wasn't just a one-time deal. It lasted for months. And this time he didn't' have anyone to hold him. Nobody to lean on. Nobody to ease him through the night, waiting for the shaking to stop, for his mind to wake, for the sun to rise and the terror to fade.

They were both gone. He was a shell. A shell with nothing left.

The fourth time, he spent half the night trying to explain to his wife why he was screaming another woman's name. Why he sounded so broken. Why she never knew about 'her'- at least not in full. He had said once that he'd lost someone special, and she had always suspected that this may not have been his first try at marriage, but she never knew how to ask, and he never seemed to want to tell. Eventually he told her everything. A month later the divorce papers were sent in. Neither of them was surprised. It had been a long time coming- since the honeymoon ended, really.

He learned from that, too. The next two had 'her' explained to them, though it was vague, and he left out as much detail as possible. Like Kelly. He didn't tell them about Kelly. He couldn't even speak her name. They both found out in their own ways, of course. The child's room left untouched upstairs was the first clue, discovered the first time they stayed over. A few homemade ashtrays and picture-frames hinted that a child once brought home their school projects, though they were never commented on. Stephanie had eventually found her picture in a box hidden high in the cupboard of their little place in Moscow. She hadn't asked, and Gibbs hadn't told, despite the presence of the box on the lounge room floor. It was never spoken of. Yet another thing they didn't talk about. But she always made a point of avoiding the name Kelly, just in case, and he noticed.

The fifth time wasn't terror so much as memory. Twisted, warped, dark memory. He watched the bullet rip through her skull right in front of him over and over, only each time her face changed to another of his team, official and unofficial. Then to those he had lost in combat. Then to those he had lost. The last face he remembered, the one he saw just before he fully woke, was the one person that he wanted with him- the one _living_ person, which he realised was an important distinction. And he found he couldn't help but get up, get dressed and go to her, if only as a friend. He rang the doorbell this time, and she didn't look nearly as pissed off as she was pretending to be.

They talked. Not about them, or their people, or their past, or anything of importance, really. But that wasn't the point. They talked. And when she offered him the spare room for the night- because he'd had far too much to drink to be driving- he knew that's all they'd be doing. She'd drawn the line in the sand a little over a week ago, and he wasn't about to beg. He wasn't that drunk. He'd take what he got. With all he'd lost, it was time to start holding what he had closer. Tighter.

He couldn't shake the feeling that someday she'd be the reason for another of his nightmares.

Or perhaps that he'd regret not begging.


End file.
